He gave her a slow, indulgent smile. “Traveling with you, my dear, on our honeymoon journey.”
She frowned slightly as if perplexed. Then she lifted a hand to his cheek, stroking up and down over his skin in a way that made his body ache with desire.
“Rough. You need to shave,” she observed, her voice curious, as if she hadn’t realized his whiskers actually grew.
His smile widened at her strangely innocent remark. “I will do so later, my dear. Now go back to sleep. You are dreaming.”
It was her turn to smile. “Of course I am,” she told him. “How else could I do this?” She rubbed her thumb over his lower lip. He had to restrain the impulse to kiss and suck her finger into his mouth.
“You are so beautiful,” she murmured, then with a deep inhale of breath, her hand fell back into her lap. She burrowed her face once more against his shoulder, sound asleep.
Rigid with need, Adrian leaned his own head back and closed his eyes with a groan. He held her for the next two hours until the coach finally rolled to a stop.
Sunset was crowning over the horizon in an orange and magenta blaze. A redbrick country house with healthy green ivy growing on its walls rose tall across a modest courtyard. The house belonged to a friend of Adrian’s, who was back in London, no doubt still at the wedding festivities drowning himself in champagne. Use of the house was a small wedding present and where they would spend the night.
“Jeannette,” he said, “wake up.” He shook her lightly. “Jeannette.” No response. “Wake up, my dear.” He nudged her again, straightening her into an upright position beside him. “We are here.”
Her eyes blinked open. “Hmm? Here? Where is here?”
He smiled anew. If she kept up this sort of behaviour, their honeymoon might turn out to be surprisingly amusing. “Our lodgings for the night. Come along now.”
She blinked again, shook her head slightly as if to clear it, then squinted at him. “Your Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Pray tell, what is my name?”
His lips quirked. “Your name? Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you sleep so long, after all. What do imagine your name to be?”
She scuttled her fair brow. “Why don’t you tell me first, then I’ll decide if we agree.”
Adrian played along. “All right. Your name is Jeannette Brantford Winter, Duchess of Raeburn. Does that satisfy you, sleepyhead?”
A visible shiver raced through her. Then after a moment she planted a smile on her face that seemed almost forced in its brightness. “Of course. I just wanted to hear someone say it. It isn’t every day a girl becomes a duchess, you know.”
His own smile dimmed slightly at her prideful remark, but he decided to let it go. He stepped from the coach, turned to reach up a hand. “Come along, your Grace. The evening awaits us.”
Silent, his new wife laid her hand in his and exited the coach.
∗ ∗ ∗
They sat down to a light supper in a small but attractive dining room at the rear of the house. Silver candelabras filled with lighted beeswax candles were arranged to dispel the darkness. From the quaint English garden that lay just beyond the half-opened windows, the heady scent of roses drifted in to gently perfume the air. The mellow sound of night creatures added a soothing natural music.
Violet stared into her bowl of cold cucumber soup, tension straining her nerves so that she was barely aware of the pleasant atmosphere surrounding her.
It was her wedding night.
She squeezed her eyes closed for a second at the thought. She had little idea what to expect, little idea what Adrian would expect. The intimate acts of men and women remained largely a mystery to her. Although she had over the years read certain intriguing passages in ancient texts of Greek and Latin—texts to which gently bred females were not supposed to have access—that had spurred the baser elements of her imagination. Mostly, though, the books had left her with more questions than answers.
Certainly her mother had told her nothing of such delicate matters. Not in the past or today, a day neither one of them had realized would be her wedding day. Emotionally, she was, as she had so often been throughout her life, on her own.
After a moment of silent self-chastisement, Violet willed her hand, the one holding the soup spoon, not to shake as she lifted a bite of soup to her mouth. The liquid sat like paste against her tongue before she managed to swallow. It wasn’t the cook’s fault, she realized, or the soup’s. She simply had no appetite. She ate one more bite out of politeness before setting her spoon aside.
She knew she ought to say something to Adrian, smile and interject some fascinating conversational tidbit. Jeannette would surely have been rambling away by now, regaling him with one of her witty stories or the latest bon mot. But hard as she tried, Violet could think of nothing even remotely interesting to say and feared the best she might manage would be a few stumbling, awkward phrases. She decided it would be safest to simply keep her mouth closed.
Adrian finished his soup, signaled permission to a nearby footman to clear, then serve the next course.
A lovely poached whitefish accompanied by a creamy dill sauce and a selection of tender summer vegetables was offered. Violet accepted servings of each, then stared down at her plate as if it might somehow infuse her with the courage she needed. Why couldn’t she be at ease like Jeannette? she bemoaned. Why was it so hard for her to do what came so easily to most of the human race?
“Perhaps the turbot will be more to your liking than the soup,” Adrian said.
Her gaze flew upward to meet his. She cursed inwardly as she felt a flush of colour rise in her cheeks. “Oh, the soup was fine. D-delicious, in fact.”
“Ah, so delicious I noted you took all of two bites.” Humor softened his tone.
She flushed again. “I don’t seem to have much appetite tonight, I confess.”
“Shall I confess something to you as well?”
She nodded.
“I am not terribly hungry either. Still, I believe both of us ought to try to consume a little of this excellent fare Armitage’s cook has laboured to provide. Otherwise I fear we’ll find ourselves in the bad graces of the kitchen staff come morning.”
Her eyes widened. So astonished by the notion that some of her nerves melted away without her realizing. Of course, Jeannette would never have tolerated such insolence from servants, much less worried about their feelings. But Adrian seemed to consider such matters understandable, even important, so perhaps he wouldn’t think it odd if his new wife did as well.
“You believe Cook might serve us cold tea?” she ventured.
“Oh, most definitely. And burned scones as well unless we take precautions now to ensure her pleasure.”
Violet considered his statement, then picked up her fork. “We had best give this a try, then, before it turns cold.”
Adrian lifted his own fork. “Right you are.”
She managed to eat most of the food on her plate. The first actual meal she had consumed since early morning. She had eaten nothing at the reception other than a single bite of cake forced upon her by the requirements of tradition. Meanwhile, Adrian engaged her in light, undemanding conversation. She found to her surprise that she was able to keep up, even volunteer a comment or two of her own. For a short while, she forgot her earlier trepidation and simply enjoyed being in his presence.
Plates were cleared. Coffee served. Along with a snifter of brandy for Adrian. Both of them refused the very luscious-looking dessert that was offered.
The room grew quiet as their conversation wound down of its own accord. Adrian relaxed back in his chair, observing her out of suddenly pensive eyes.
They would muddle along together well enough, he decided, a swallow of liquor warming his throat. He did not love her, he admitted. Nor did he expect her to love him. But that was all right. Love was ridiculous; a self-serving, destructive emotion better left to fools and half-mad poets. Hadn’t his own parents been perfect examples of tha
t?
Married for love, they had spent the twenty years of their wedded life at each other’s throats, bickering like fishwives over every slight and slur—real or imagined—until his father’s untimely death in a riding accident when Adrian was only nineteen.
During his youth, his mother had complained constantly to him about his father’s indiscreet affairs and hurtful infidelities. His father had grumbled that his mother was cold and heartless, that he would get more response out of a stone. What else was a man to do but look elsewhere for comfort? his father had defended. Yet somehow his parents had managed to produce six children: himself, his four sisters and lastly his brother, Christopher.
All of his sisters were married. Whether happily or not he couldn’t say. They certainly gave every evidence of preferring the married state. Haranguing him mercilessly over the last few years about how it was well past time he found a wife and set up his nursery. At thirty-two, he finally had conceded the fight. If his parents could produce heirs while detesting each other the way they had, then he supposed he could do his duty as well, with love or without it.
Jeannette was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. He studied her as she sat glowing and golden in the candlelight. The well-bred daughter of the Earl of Wightbridge, whose pedigree traced back to the Conquerer himself. Strictly speaking, her bloodlines were better than his own. His mother was French. No more than the daughter of a lesser count who had had the wisdom to abandon France a few years prior to the Revolution.
Jeannette had been the unattainable prize every man had desired for the past two Seasons, despite her family’s lack of fortune. He’d wanted her, had won her. Physical desire would be enough, Adrian assured himself. It was enough for most people of his class, he knew. And once she had given him an heir and a spare, as the saying went, she could go her own way, discreetly, if that was her wish. And he would go his.
In the meantime, he feared he might be in for a devil of a ride. His bride, he was coming to realize, could be as willful and unpredictable as a lightning storm. What was the purpose of her uncharacteristic reserve tonight, for instance? She was behaving more like her twin than herself. Perhaps he should have done himself a favour and married the other sister instead.
Now, where had that idea come from? he wondered in surprise.
Violet, a quaint name that matched the shy, unassuming young woman who bore it. She was every bit as beautiful as her twin sister behind the concealing spectacles she wore. But so awkward and reserved she could barely speak a sensible greeting to him half of the time.
He had come to know her a little during his engagement to Jeannette. Had drawn her out slightly on one or two rare occasions. She had an intelligent mind, he’d discovered, and a kind heart. He had found her down by the river that bordered her parents’ country estate one afternoon late last spring, crying over a sack of drowned kittens. She had been trying to breathe life into one that lingered, puffing air into its tiny mouth and cold pink nose by covering both with her own lips. The scene had squeezed at his heart; he abhorred cruelty of any kind, particularly when done to animals or children. The poor kitten died a short while later. He had helped Violet bury it and its siblings beneath a nearby tree, had given his handkerchief to her to dry her tears afterward. In silent understanding, they had walked together back to the house.
In that moment he had liked her, liked her very much. But even if he had not already been engaged, marrying her would never have done. He needed a woman who was confident and secure. Poised in company. Unafraid to assume command, of herself or of others. He needed a woman who could stand as his duchess, not hide away in fright. No, Violet Brantford, sweet as she might be, was simply not duchess material.
He looked across at Jeannette, his bride. She smiled back, looking fully herself. He had made the best choice, he decided, reservations or no. He chastised himself for his wayward thoughts. What had he been doing, wool gathering over her sister? He had absolutely no business thinking about Violet in any but a fraternal manner. They were brother and sister now. In future, he would make certain his mind never strayed in such a direction again.
Jeannette covered a small yawn with her palm. “Forgive me.”
“No, it is quite all right, my dear. This has been a long, eventful day. Why don’t you retire for the evening. I will remain here and finish my brandy.” He lifted his glass, swirled the dark amber liquid inside, his eyes hooded and intense. “I will join you after a while.”
Violet’s nerves roared back to life with a sudden sharp ping as if they were harp strings and he had reached out and plucked one, letting it resonate within her. If she had had any doubts as to where Adrian planned to sleep tonight, she didn’t any longer. Of course, it wasn’t the sleeping part that actually concerned her. It was that mysterious “other” that made her quiver. Still, she loved him, so how bad could it be?
On shaky legs she climbed to her feet, quietly made her excuses and walked from the room.
Chapter Four
Half an hour later Violet sat in front of a small, mirrored dressing table in a cheerful green-and-white-striped bedchamber. Her long hair was neatly brushed and had been left to trail down her back, its heavy weight tied away from her face by a plain white ribbon. Her nightgown was white as well. But if the seamstress had meant the garment to be virginal, the woman was in even more profound need of eyeglasses than she was herself.
Made of a diaphanous silk, the sleeveless gown hung to her ankles but concealed little on its way down. The bodice was the most revealing of all, formed of a delicate Irish lace that clung to her bare breasts, soft and transparent as early-morning light. Violet couldn’t believe Jeannette had purchased such a scandalous garment or that their mother had let her.
Instant mortification was her first reaction when her maid, Agnes, held the gown up for her to slip on and Violet realized she could see through the material to the maidservant standing on the other side. She nearly refused to put it on. Then common sense reasserted itself. If she balked at donning the night rail, her missish reaction might cast undue attention upon her. She knew the way servants liked to gossip. Curious, they might begin to notice other little things about her. Things that would distinguish her from her sister, and before she knew it, her secret would be revealed.
Luckily Agnes was new. Adrian’s staff would be new to her as well, and she to them. Still, everyone needed to believe she was Jeannette, from his majordomo to his newest, youngest tenant. And making a fuss on her wedding night by refusing to wear the nightgown she had supposedly chosen herself was not the best way to begin.
So while Agnes waited, ready to assist her into the embarrassing night rail, Violet put aside her objections and obediently raised her arms. Once dressed—if one could call it that—she sat and let Agnes brush and arrange her hair. A few minutes later, the maid let herself out of the room, the door giving a soft fatalistic click at her back.
Violet began to pace. How could she allow Adrian to see her this way? What would he think? Might he not be as scandalized as she? Surely even a lightskirt would refuse to be seen in such a garment. Then again, she didn’t know much about lightskirts. Perhaps when such women were with men they wore no clothing at all. Flaming colour scalded her cheeks, burning there at the shocking idea. Violet paced faster.
At least the outfit came with a robe, she thought. Not that the outer garment—cut from the same revealing material as the nightgown—was all that much of an improvement. But at least it had long sleeves and buttons. Then a new thought occurred to her. More than one nightgown must have been packed for Jeannette. Maybe one of the others was more modestly sewn. A nice opaque cotton lawn like the sort she was used to wearing to bed.
A quick search of the trunk, though, dashed her hopes, the nightgowns she discovered inside every bit as bad as the one she was presently wearing. And in one particular case, worse—made with more lace, less silk, and dyed a shade of red the devil himself would have blushed to see.
Tugging the robe
more tightly around her body, Violet glanced around the room. Her eyes settled uneasily upon the large tester bed that stood to her right, covers folded down in invitation. Should she climb in and wait for Adrian there? Would such an action seem too forward? Or should she sit on the small sofa near the fireplace, try for a casual pose? Neither choice seemed satisfactory. Who did she think she was, after all, Caro Lamb to Adrian’s Lord Byron?
Normally she would have read a book until she grew sleepy. But she had left her copy of the novel she was reading on her nightstand at home, half finished. What a shame. Likely she would never find out how the story ended—another very entertaining tale told by the clever author Jane Austen. It was a foregone conclusion that Jeannette would care nothing for the book. In all likelihood, her sister would lose Violet’s copy somewhere between Portsmouth and Rome, a convenient prop she would carry with her, then absentmindedly leave behind on a table or a coach seat.
Violet trod forward and back, forward and back across the pliant wool rug under her slippered feet. What had she done? How would she ever be able to keep up this charade? Would Adrian know tonight when he saw her that she was a fraud? When he kissed her? Would he sense she was not the woman he believed he had wed? Would he realize she was not Jeannette?
That was her true fear. The real reason she trembled even now. She wasn’t so much afraid of what Adrian would do with her tonight in the bed—although that was a definite consideration—but more she trembled for fear of what he might find out.
A light rap sounded upon a connecting door she had failed to notice earlier. It opened on silent hinges and Adrian stepped through.
Her time of solitary reflection was at an end.
Breath caught in her throat as she watched him shut the door then turn her way. Dressed in a long robe of dark brown velvet, whose colour nearly matched his eyes, he stood tall and powerful, magnificent as a Greek statue. His thick, short black hair was freshly brushed, and damp on the ends from washing. His face newly shaven for the third time that day. Just looking at him made her ache, he was so painfully handsome.
The Husband Trap Page 4